Things began to go seriously wrong just outside of Watford. The Velocette Venom, all 499cc and 36hp of it, clunked to a halt just as I was clearing the dreadful environs of urban decay. Velocettes have all but disappeared from modern roads on the back of their exorbitant cost and scarcity of cheap spares.
Either that, or their quaint clutch mechanism so pisses off the punters that they put a match in the petrol tank! This one was owned by a collector who'd been taken in by my spiel of knowing a Velocette expert who'd sort out the jerky, jumpy clutch. Velocette's designers also had a strange sense of humour, combining the world's nastiest clutch with a first gear so tall that massive slip was needed up to about 30mph!
36 horses from 500cc is laughable by seventies standards let alone those of today but back in the late fifties it was pushing engine design to extremes, especially in an inherently vibratory single cylinder setup. Every ounce of power that struggles out of the OHV thumper makes its presence felt.
All these elements combine to make it a right bugger to ride at a moderate pace. The engine also seemed to overheat, though this might've had something to do with me revving it to seven grand in neutral to show it who was boss, and get the cagers all wired up - thunderous racket from the fishtail silencer, bike vibrated so heavily that nearby plate-glass shop windows rattled in their frames.
More piss taking with the kickstart, a too short lever that was oddly geared, soon left me red-faced, huffing and puffing. Six kicks was about right. Just right for a summer day's workout. Oddly, after a few days riding and a bit of bodging with the clutch (a matter of patience rather than outright skill), things began to come together and most of complaints faded. Like most good women, the bike didn't give itself up willingly.
The whole point of the tall gearing was to give the bike a certain long-legged ability that wasn't out of place even on modern motorways. 100mph, if you were used to British vibration, not out of the question, though a couple of hours of that left you feeling like the world was about to end. Much more fun down favourite A or B roads, where the relatively lowly mounted engine gave the bike a well settled feel on the road.
Suspension travel and braking were laughable, easy to overcook it in bumpy bends, but the bike lacked any vicious bite-back in its chassis, could take some mad lines, live to tell the tale. It has the same kind of minimalism as an old Ducati single and at 375lbs doesn't weigh any more than any number of modern Jap singles. Plenty of clever, idiosyncratic engineering but prices are almost up to Vinnie levels.
The Venom was about as well turned out as the classic British single gets. Contrast that with a BSA B33 that I bought for four hundred notes. As might be expected, that kind of money doesn't buy much in the UK. Another 499cc OHV thumper but one built down to the lowest possible cost, an almost exquisite rendition of the production engineer's art.
The postwar antique had a rigid rear end, nonstandard forks, minimal push-bike style hub brakes, a sprung saddle that should be standard issue in third world countries with a population problem, and the kind of minimal frame any sane person wouldn't use in a nifty fifty.
Motorcycling at its most basic, its 23hp engine roared with life and vibrated with advanced wear. The B33 used to be infinitely rebuildable and if kept at reasonable revs would go around the clock. These days, spares are rarer and more expensive, many bikes making it as classics just on their antique looks. On paper, the engine maxed out at 6000 revs but by 5000rpm the vibes were so fierce that I risked permanent damage to my eyesight.
Some old codgers reckon that motorcycle design has gone downhill ever since the rigid rear end was replaced, but five minutes on a bumpy road will reflect the massive progress made over the past four decades. The B33 had a wicked mind of its own, would react in a totally unpredictable manner to changes in the road surface and the necessarily manly inputs.
The rubber was prehistoric, the sprung saddle tried to throw me off the machine and the forks distorted into weird banana shapes. All the time the motor thumped away with an intensity that had my teeth rattling and eyeballs shaking. White fingers? After an hour at 60mph you'd be lucky to have any hands left!
The only place the BSA made any sense was in Central London - the sheer violence of its power production was like a rolling earthquake that greatly disturbed the civilian population who probably thought the fall of man and the millennium had arrived early. Most cagers swerved out of the way, which wasn't really necessary as the bike was narrow enough to take push-bike sized gaps.
The biggest laugh was coming out of a Soho restaurant to find some rascals trying to start it. They'd assumed the lack of an ignition switch and vintage looks added up to a quick killing. It did, but not financially, a hidden switch meant that one of the swine had nearly expired from kickstarting the old dear. He didn't even have the energy to run away, stepping in front of a car that took out his kneecap. Lovely!
The scowls could've been framed as I languidly kicked the old beast into riotous life and rode off. The small matter of insurance and registration of the venerable classic meant I wouldn't be staying around to press charges. One aspect of the B33 should be mentioned, I suppose, it turned in about 80mpg. Okay, so it leaked so much oil it was probably doing 80mpp, but it just shows how far from reality are modern engine designs.
The B33 was exchanged for a Royal Enfield 250 Crusader. Another battered survivor but one that was vaguely modern in general design even if it was a bigger oil gusher than the BSA (they were called Royal Oilfields in their day, though their fans will string you up if you utter that in earshot).
The Continental GT version was good for a ton under the right conditions (gale force following wind, downhill, on a bike with a blue-printed engine and a rider immune to the hallucinatory vibes at maximum revs). The Crusader wouldn't go much over 85mph, unless the valves were bounced right through the rev range in each and every gear when it would do 92mph.
It sat well on the road even at that velocity but the brakes were useless and the vibes threatened to split the petrol tank, impossible to keep my knees clamped upon it. Think of the Crusader as a British Ducati without the engineering finesse and you won't go far wrong. It had marginally better electrics that those old Duke singles but I ended up dumping the battery and wiring the ignition directly as the former kept spitting out acid.
A reasonably rebuilt Crusader's a marginally pleasant device to saunter around on, best on back roads where it can swing through the bends in a thrilling way save that the brakes won't save the bike from rider madness. In town, too much low speed trawling overheated the motor, stalling dead and refusing to restart for a few minutes. Cagers found that highly amusing, encouraging the bike to life by madly revving their engines. Odd chaps.
The Crusader turned in a poor 60mpg, wrecked its chain in short order and needed daily attention to its bolts and ignition timing. You don't see many on the road and spares are rarish, thus expensive. There isn't much kit available to upgrade the engine to modern spec, either.
The Royal Enfield lasted all of a week in my hands. In a rare fit of energy, I actually cleaned the bike up, had it glowing nicely despite it being nearly as old as myself. Parking it in Soho (on the pavement), a favourite haunt when in London, someone made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Poor guy didn't have an idea of what he was letting himself in for, evinced by his inability to start it. Before he crippled himself I threw in some free instructions.
With money burning a hole in my pocket it was time to buy a real classic. Well, not a real classic, not at the ten grand the decent stuff demanded. A very tidy Ariel 500 Red Hunter, one of the late models with proper frame and suspension. The engines aren't that different from the prewar models but those had an horrible chassis that would have you off as soon as the throttle was used in anger.
Arguably, the 350's a nicer motorcycle but in the classic game you have to take what turns up. Bikes of this kind of age have very divergent personalities, dependant on how they've been misused and subsequently rebuilt. It is possible to get decent mileage out of these Ariel engines but it means riding them in a very civilised manner which is out of kilter with all the noise and vibration they put out.
Think about a slimmed down steamroller and you'd get an idea of how the Red Hunter feels at idle, so much barely repressed power trying to escape. In reality, 26 horses in a 375lb chassis didn't add up to an excess of puff, any attempt at serious acceleration ruined by a massive intrusion of vibration. The only way to ride the old bugger, thump it into top, troll along at 40 to 70mph.
Even then there was a lot of thrumming at all points of contact. The engine had been around the clock several times, rebuilt most recently a year ago by some old codger who looked like he knew what he was doing. That was the story, anyway, one I was inclined to believe because I could kick the old girl into life first go; a major achievement on these old kinds of sluggers. There was a certain technique, that would leave thieving youths cursing the beast and getting nowhere fast.
This was just as well as the electrics had been reduced to a bare minimum, no ignition key just a hidden switch that couldn't be operated when sat at the bars! Use of the horn was accompanied by a strong smell of burning but that didn't really matter because the blast out of the silencer was redolent of an army about to invade. The lights were the usual crap, bulbs also prone to exploding without warning, down to the vibes.
The indicators were reliable and easily seen by dumb cagers - at least in the day - my arms! The throttle's spring was up to Guzzi standards, taking my hand off the right bar caused massive engine braking as the throttle snapped shut. With only one hand holding the bars, the whole bike twitched as if it was more at home in a rodeo!
Which neatly brings us to the handling. Having the engine a mere few inches off the ground and everything well tucked in meant that the bike didn't need much of a chassis to motor and it would take a particularly incompetent designer to muck things up. The Red Hunter felt both well balanced and nicely planted on the road but what it couldn't really cope with was the madness of modern highway neglect.
To be fair, the suspension appeared both stock and recently untouched by human hand. Riding at anything approaching a decent clip over neglected country roads (the place where the bike was otherwise most at home), I had to hang on for dear life as almost each and every bump was transmitted into my backside and arms. This wouldn't have been the end of the world had not the suspension also gone somewhat flexible under this onslaught, destroying the natural resilience of the chassis.
To be nasty, the combination of two largish SLS drums at each end was at best likely to rapidly turn the rider religious; at worst, it was certain to hasten the speed at which one met one's maker. It wasn't merely the pathetic levels of retardation but also massive fade. Much worse than many bikes of the era, explained by new shoes being combined with linings that had gone oval.
Brought back proud memories of a B25 I used to hack around on, a bike that infamously nearly killed the Editor of this august rag. I screwed the neck of the little beast until all the crankshaft's bearings went pop. Its bent frame and naff brakes meant that it went for loitering ped's and black cabs with a vengeance that was almost supernatural. British thumpers don't get much worse than those utilitarian old B25/44's, and don't let any classic nutter convince you otherwise.
The Ariel was something of a disappointment, then. Much promise in its shape and fiery bluster, but an absolute failure to deliver on the road. To be fair (again), its suspension and brakes could've been cheaply fixed, would've made it as a useful back road plodder. It was too temperamental for town work, overheating and threatening to seize up the lumbering gearbox and clutch (no doubt, another area that could be fixed, though probably not cheaply). Dangerously slow for the motorway long haul, the vibes making full use of its power impossible.
Lasted all of ten days in my tender hands, swapped it plus a bit of cash (in my favour, of course) for an AJS Model 16. Very similar to the Ariel except that it was only a 350 and came with a rusty chassis in stripped down trail form. Far enough from stock to have every classic enthusiast in the country rolling in their graves. The motor had hot cams, high compression ratio piston, an open Amal and electronic ignition.
Part of its charm was the missing silencer, not so much illegal as an excuse to bring back the death penalty. Plenty of work needed but I got stuck in on the back of having nothing better to do; slack summer days. I knew a couple of AJS fanatics with garages full of junk... er, splendid collections of spare parts. A few sob stories about the desecration performed on the Ajay by past owners secured a heap of valuable chassis parts at a price that would make a classic dealer weap.
Old Brit thumpers are easy enough to work on. If they have lasted this long they usually have stainless fasteners made out of strong steel that are easy to extract. Parts of the AJS were so worn that it would've been even quicker to hammer them into dust but as even the most corroded part can be flogged for interesting money, that wouldn't do at all, would it?
The engine was early sixties vintage. Stock, they were as mild as could be - less than 20 horses and 70mph, but this one would put 85mph on the clock of the reconstructed cycle. Probably more, but by then the vibes were doing serious damage to my body. An indication of how well the motor was running, an absolutely contented feel at 70-75mph; not exactly smooth and sophisticated but at least showing that all the internal engine components were meshing with a rare degree of precision. Backed up by an average of nearly 75mpg!
As neither the Ariel nor Ajay were close to stock in their engine configurations it's a bit unfair to deduce that the Model 16 was an order of magnitude better but there was no way I could see the Ariel being transformed to such an extent that it would have the edge over the AJS.
The Ajay was so splendid for an old thumper that the first mate who had a ride demanded I sell it to him. His mind had been somewhat addled by using a prewar Norton single as his sole means of transport for a decade, some sidevalve abortion that could be run on chicken piss if the need arose! The kind of bike the classic guru's insist is full of character but ten minutes on the horror left me screaming for mercy, something to do with the feeling of being atop a big thumping engine whilst the chassis fell apart under me.
I rather missed the Ajay, about the best Brit single I'd so far come across, but the large wedge of used fifties had me all fired up. One possible hustle I'd had my eye on for a while was a Panther Model 100, all 598cc's of sloping thumper madness. This sixties rocker, confined to a wheelchair by diabetics, kept a 1962 model in his living room as a reminder of better days.
Despite offering him most of the money I'd made he refused to sell but let me take the bike for an outing (the small print of the UMG he couldn't read as his eyes were fading, so for once my reputation didn't precede me). He sat in his wheelchair grinning inanely, convinced I wouldn't be able to start it but she was so lowly tuned that I had her thumping away on the third kick.
The Panther isn't about power, just as well as it only makes 23 horses at 5000 revs. Its long stroke design pumps out the torque and thuds up to about 70mph without any qualms, 80mph possible on a longish straight. Panther used the engine as the main part of the frame, with scant attention to the fact that such a set-up on a big thumper emphasized the amount of vibration the mill was going to put out. Oddly, the pulses of discontent from the engine faded into the background after about an hour and only really intruded when I tried, and failed dismally, to get more than 80mph out of the plot.
The engine had an exceptional amount of engine braking, hardly any need to touch the brakes. A slight exhaust leakage meant the odd backfire added to the fun and games; artillery going off. The exhaust itself was very loud, would boom off the solid walls of country villages and rattle loose dustbin tops.
Handling was what you'd expect from an old British single, with suspension that was in much better shape than anticipated and actually absorbed quite a lot of the road imperfections. The bike went into an odd nodding motion if I used the brakes in corners, and slamming the throttle shut was such a shock to the system that the back wheel pattered in protest.
Overall, it was one of the better thumper experiences, giving the impression that the bike had been thought out by a clever designer who had integrated the various components in a much more proficient way than most such devices. Worth a couple of grand, as long as there are plenty of spares thrown in as they are somewhat rare and expensive in classic circles.
Swapping back to any vaguely modern bike after a British thumper just shows up how much further things have moved on, emphasizing their smoothness, easy handling and outrageous power. Which isn't to say that some old British dear can't cover the distance and do it in a much more economical manner; just takes a bit more effort and a bit of the gritted teeth blues.
One bike I'd never ridden before was a Norton 350 International, some plunger framed early fifties bit of nonsense. This was basically a prewar engine in a vintage frame that was later infamously updated by the additional of a Featherbed chassis. This was on sale in one of the classic rags for five grand, I turned up and pretended I was going to blow that kind of dosh after a test ride. About the only way I can get close to riding such classics.
It was obvious from the saddle that the manufacturers had great concern about a possible post-war population explosion - after half an hour I could barely stagger off the bike, let alone contemplate sex! The motor was the most impressive piece of the machine, an 348cc OHV unit that revved until the valves bounced and didn't churn out an excessive amount of vibration down the lower reaches of the rev range.
If you took an heavyweight push-bike, chopped the frame away where the pedals go and placed a huge, throbbing thumper motor in their place, you'd get a pretty good idea of how the International handled and braked! Snaked through bends, shook and rattled the rider over rough going, and did the most lurid speed wobbles imaginable without actually throwing the rider down the road.
Occasionally, you see a whole plague of such vintage monstrosities on parade, doing about 10mph through the countryside, which is about all they are good for. I returned the bike in one piece, as far as I could see, given the minor fact that my eyeballs were jigging about in my head and my vision was worse than after indulging in ten lagers and a curry.
The owner seemed mentally disturbed, pouncing on the machine and wailing something about the main bearings knocking, though there was such a general din that I couldn't see how anyone could discern any engine anomalies.
The next little dance with English eccentricity was a snazzy red Royal Enfield 250 GT. My mechanic mate had acquired one with knocking main bearings, fixed it up and thrust it into my hands with the injunction to run it in. This was even more Ducati-like than the Crusader (it's probably the other way round, by the way), with the same instant embrace of noise, vibration and fairly direct laying down of the power.
When learners were allowed to ride unrestricted 250's in the sixties, it was the hottest piece of tackle on the street. I was soon bouncing its valves and exceeding 95mph. The mechanic had a sense of humour, he hadn't yet upgraded the worn out chassis bearings, the GT doing some crazed high speed weaves but it says a lot for the basic correctness of the plot that it didn't throw me down the road.
The front brake had been upgraded to a TLS jobbie, evidently with racing linings as it would, given a good handful, scream the front tyre. Made the bike jerk to the left which nearly implanted the GT in a couple of cages before I got a handle on it.
Caned the hell out of the engine, it was just up to modern road speeds. Not that this is the point of old Brit's, of course, I had a lot more fun on early morning runs simply by dumping the crash helmet. Made 70mph feel like 120mph! The classic bike brigade should petition the government for owners of old Brits to be able to ride helmetless.
I was pretty impressed with the GT's engine. After a 400 mile weekend it was still intact, just needed plenty of oil as it dropped a load like an incontinent camel. Every so often it would spurt out a huge amount of lube, something to do with badly designed engine breathing (curable the mechanic reckons, and who am I to disagree?).
I came back from my weekend of indulgence to find he had a garage full of Velocettes, the bugger had found the proverbial old widow who just wanted shot of them as quickly as possible. As I was still recovering from my adventures with a Venom I borrowed a nicely turned out Viper, telling him I was serious about buying the 350 slugger.
You can always tell a good Velo from the junk by how well the clutch works and how much vibration's churned out. The Viper had 54000 miles on the clock, no rust or rot, but was gently faded. And good Velo's can be very good indeed, only having Vincent Comets as possible rivals in terms of sheer engineering quality.
I was pleasantly surprised by how well the Viper ran, perhaps partly in contrast to how nasty some of the other bikes I'd swung a leg over had been. The 349cc motor didn't manage much over 25 horses, but these were real British ponnies, able to blast through the 90mph mark and even court the ton. The engine's components meshed so finely, though not without some vibration (but most of it was absorbed by the well matched chassis), that I couldn't find it within myself to thrash the bugger into oblivion.
The beat of its motor much more sonorous when riding without a lid, even its chassis was able to cope with everything I threw at it. Helped along by a low centre of gravity (and, essentially, the fact that everything on the motor was well tucked in, the across the frame four the biggest motorcycle experience rip-off of the century) and the Venom spec TLS front brake. The Viper confounded its age and mileage by turning in 85mpg, confirming that it had been rebuilt with rare expertise. Suffice to say, I bought it!
Johnny Malone